


help me to name it

by thisloveaffair



Category: Tennis RPF, maherbert
Genre: Beach Holidays, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Making Out, You've been warned, also this is extremely self-indulgent, they're the softest what's new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23021101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisloveaffair/pseuds/thisloveaffair
Summary: Nico and Pierre go on holiday together.
Relationships: Pierre-Hugues Herbert/Nicolas Mahut
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	help me to name it

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song "Myth" by Beach House. 
> 
> I should mention that there are some maherbert fics on this site that I adore and go back to re-read frequently. If you've read them, you might catch the little references to them in my fics. I created this account solely to post maherbert fics and keep it separate from my other fandoms, because, well, RPF. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: this is a work of fiction. Clearly, I don't own these men. 
> 
> Let's pretend they're speaking French here, okay? :')

Being pretty indifferent about the destination itself when it comes to holidays, one would think he, Nicolas Mahut, would be the go-to man to consult before planning your trip. That he’d be in the know, preach variety by visiting locations ranging from the beaten-track crowded to the more lonely, select type. Money is hardly a problem, these days. If he wanted to prove himself adventurous and world-trotter hip… well, he could.

Far from it, though, the off-season only leaves him chasing after the simple pleasures, like being free to truly wind down without having to check the time the whole day. And the luxury that follows, wholly priceless, to find out everything is perfectly okay and uneventful after. His holidays start the moment his schedule is cleared, mind defaulting to a less manic state that swaps tics and restlessness for cautious wonder. Easy yesses and leisure touches. That’s the short of how he usually finds himself swayed into visiting these vast, crystal-clear beaches every single year. Ilha de Bazaruto or, more enigmatically, Island of the Mist this time around. All the way down in Mozambique.

Pierre, as he’s come to learn, feels very strongly about summer spent out in the sand.

It’s an onslaught of non-stop smiling and infectious glee from the moment they get the plane tickets all through the twelve-hour flight, the tedious baggage claim that follows, then, at last, the hurried check-in at the resort. Nico can’t find it in him not to be stupidly enamoured with Pierre’s accent going dulcet with use, his French sounding more native and loose by the minute as he yaps on about lazy days and long sleepless nights; can’t really do other than call out a soft ‘be careful’ when Pierre takes off, yellow flip flops clapping against the ground and fading in the distance as he the climbs the last wooden steps separating concrete from whitish, picture-perfect sand.

When Nico reaches him at last, he’s looking out into the ocean.

He drives the umbrella’s end into the sand and looks up at Pierre through squinted, in-need-of-sunglasses eyes.

“Enjoying the view?”

“Hard not to.” Pierre tsks, shoulders raising in a small shrug, “Being the living consequence of some clandestine beach loving.”

Smug little grin plastered on his face, he turns around to take a bag from his hand and digs around for something. “Hopefully my parents were above the drunk, trashy hippie romps of the 70s but, _that_ , I’ll never know.”

Nico sees him take the plastic sand anchor and hums, signalling a spot to the right that looked even enough. “Didn’t you ask?”

“ _Nico.”_ Pierre snorts, crouching where Nico had pointed without giving it a second thought. Anything involving knee strain off-court called on to Pierre’s gallant side and had him step in for Nico, a display that made him feel deeply tender in spite of it being prompted one-hundred-percent by his uselessness. “You’re supposed to act scandalized.”

“Why? You _are_ unnervingly calm about sand getting on your stuff or body; you don’t really get mad at the odd wave throwing your ass back to the shore… you actually _enjoy_ the scorching heat. I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe you’re not that far off.”

A smirk, Nico hears it more than sees it. Pierre is looking down. Nico, on his part, is following his arms as they tense and flex and tense as more sand gets dug up. “Ah, to sunbath like a sloth. For hours.”

“We’ll-“ He swallows, unable to tear his gaze away. “We’ll be looking a fine contrast by the end of the week.”

“That we will.” Pierre purrs, thick and full of intention. “Very hot, can’t wait.”

For a brief, brilliant moment Nico considers holding up a mirror and letting him judge for himself but already Pierre moves to stand back up. His hands make dust the sand off his bermuda shorts, more gesture than need, then he’s turning sideways to shoot Nico a half funny, half charged look. Nico shoos him away in lieu of an answer, still perfectly registering the display of handsome playfulness and that rested, lively glint to his pitch black eyes.

Pretending he wasn’t a single lewd remark away from jumping his bones, the abridged story of his life these days.

Resisting the allure of physicality has never been Nico’s strong suit, the comfort of touch not truly comparable to any other highs he’s ever had, but Pierre being so receptive and open to proximity was intoxicating in its own right. No matter if they ended up holding hands or in bed, Pierre sensing him needy actually turned him soothing and welcoming, something that spoke volumes to Nico about his emotional intelligence (and how badly it belied his young age).

Nico himself hadn’t known better, before.

Hadn’t really met anyone that felt so disarmingly _safe_ to be with.

“Need a hand, Nico?”

Nico watches the string of chairs, not longer folded, that populate the space to his right, all empty save for the one with Pierre’s cap on top of his folded white t-shirt and the bermuda shorts because of course those had to be too long for his tanning needs. He knows better than turn around to check, yes, but he’s apparently not above putting a little masochistic wish forward that he’s wearing the Armani ones with the steel sheen to them, those that were short and on the tight side but otherwise mostly sober. A rare buy for Pierre, although he did give him some enthusiastic approval when asked for an opinion so maybe that’d won him over. He has to have packed them somewhere in all that infamous, money-sucking excess baggage, right?

Anyway, he’s got a task to do and it’s not ogling or getting caught up in his head when _still_ very much out in the harsh sun.

“No, I got this. Thanks.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

A couple of minutes later his comfort level is well on his way up. He’d planted the beach umbrella without much fuss and it opened it wide, the respite almost immediate as he duly moved their belongings under the shade and, along with them, himself. Book in his lap, he currently sits on a chair and is on his way to drag another one in front of him, to prop his feet up on. Pretty much inevitably for a person his height, the sun does reach his ankles when he stretches. It’s little to relinquish, though, as long as the rest of him stays cool and unbothered by any glare or burning feeling. He puts up with it enough as it is on court.

Still, Pierre always harbors some hope to, in his words, _‘seduce him back into the light side of the force’_.

Nico just doesn’t feel the pull, really. “I’ll have to pass.”

“You can read here as well,” Nico flicks a gaze at the sound of movement, definitely a mistake when he spots the expanse of caramel skin and the oh, careful-what-you-wish-for Armani trunks that sit all snug around Pierre’s hips and thighs. He must stare a great deal, weak man that he is, for Pierre to very blatantly preen under his attention and make the way he lies on his side turn slightly more slack-suggestive. Flashing Nico a roguish grin, he pats and smooths the free spot besides him.

“Towel’s big enough, I promise.”

Nico has to smile at his coquettish, futile efforts. “I’m good here.”

“Once you start down the dark path... ”

Humming, Nico thumb-flips through the book on his lap until it falls open on the page he’d slid the magnetic bookmark over. Pierre is seconds away from fading into the background.

“…you realize the light is overrated?”

Words that fizzle, soft like bubbles.

Pop.

Pop.

“- and, clearly, I’d _never_ let you fall that far. Enjoy your book.” Nico catches the emotion on his voice, a fraction of a statement that’s swiftly filtered as an afterthought. It’s the print that catches his undivided attention, the sentences he’s processing as he submerges himself back into the flow of poetry and shuts out all else.

“Uh huh. You too, Pierrot.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 _L’ivre De Mots_ turned out to be a quick read once you got into it. Exploiting that maxim, E.E. Cummings style it was all-around fun to follow— at least, when it wasn’t interspersed with the oh-so-witty pauses by courtesy of random blank pages. The artistic purpose was lost on him in that sense, seemed more waste than message. It came close to tainting the pleasant reading experience with all the eye-rolls it prompted, but ultimately didn’t, or else he’d have shifted his attention to his phone for good. As it was, he’d kept it conveniently on his lap, to quickly grab and snap some photos of what little sentences had moved him, gave him pause, had him reflect on the beauty intrinsic to the French language. Keeping track of activities is an old habit, journaling, maybe not fit for his age and busy day-to-day life.

Or the promo-friendly platform he’s planning share them on.

Not that it’s stopped him before.

By the time he looks up, easy and amiable with bookish joy, he realizes how general brightness in his field of vision has gone full candid. With a little hiss, he slides his feet back and off the chair, the telltale warmth to his calves lingering as he stands up to put his book away in his bag. A quick peek at his watch informs him it’s midday already so, this vicious glare and heat is more or less to be expected.

Almost apprehensive, he risks a brief glance over to where Pierre was hours before, unsure if he’ll find a poodle or a fried skeleton there. It’s neither, yet again, to his great relief. Pierre looks as relaxed as ever, lying on his back and with an arm thrown over his face. Nico sighs at the sight, spurred into action as he grabs both sunscreen and spare towel from their bag then reaches for the chair with Pierre’s folded clothes on it, to steal his cap and put it on himself.

Ready as he’ll ever be, he braves the outside with a cautionary sneer, the heat that the rubber of his flip flops give off clueing him in on the current hellish status of everything not guarded by some gentle, loving shade. Nico makes a quick work of whipping out the beach towel when he reaches Pierre, placing it alongside his and promptly sitting down on it, to get this thermal shock over with. He lets out the breath he’d been holding and-

_Looks._

It takes the edge off, the moment his gaze settles on Pierre. Nevermind the slight sheen of sweat coating his skin or the still visible imprints of pain-relief patches on his arms and waist. There are no more dark circles under his eyes, no tension to the line of his shoulders and back. He’s masculine and beautiful, a wild thing, in this very moment, windswept dark hair and legs folded into one another uncaring of even suntans, hand palms up as if waiting- _and knowing_ they’ll be held. Dense hot air rushes mercilessly to his lungs and, for once, it feels fitting.

How it makes him tingle, oh.

All over.

It’s borderline gilding the lily, to feel so intensely what he’s not denying. Wouldn’t dare try resist it to begin with, not when it’s this honest. Pierre, he’s a man his soul feels bared to. Nico’s made his peace with it, accepted he’s drawn to him in an exceptionally fragile, intimate way— the kind that should have him running for the hills, maybe, but he’s never been one to dwell in the past. The present looks tempting enough, from here, boundless and easy as he reaches out to touch him. 

“Pierre?”

After a few seconds of silence, Nico lets his hand calmly trail its way up, brushing past the rise of a bony collarbone and smoothing digits down a razor-sharp jawline. He grips Pierre’s wrist, thumb sliding into the dip of his palm as he carefully moves his boyfriend’s arm to the side, until his handsome face comes fully into view. Closed eyes, relaxed features. Nico has seen him like this countless times, being an early riser and all; he’s _had_ him like this, in his arms, stress-free and unguarded. There’s an ingrained familiarity washing over their intimacy as of late, he’s noted, an extra layer that doesn’t take away from how intensely in love he feels, only magnifies this homely feeling welling up in his chest.

Still waiting on an answer, Nico leans down to speak into Pierre’s ear. What he spots before he can do this, though, is a little earbud peeking out. Not that big of a surprise, considering. Pierre’s brand of abstract, undying love for music falls second only to tennis… and, on some bad days, it actually stands untouched on top of everything else.

Curiosity piqued, Nico hovers it closer to his ear expecting some tune he’s never heard of but, a man’s voice greets him, cadent and conversational. His face starts twisting into a frown as he listens on, only—what this is, it becomes clear in a matter of seconds. A podcast, an honest-to-god all French podcast. Sci-fi, he’d guess, at the mentions of the apocalypse nearing and the _crustacean weaponry_ ? Whatever that might be.

Oh.

He _had_ told him, hadn’t he?

It made up quite the fond memory to look back to, Pierre’s dramatics over failing to ‘level up the intellectual profile’ while begrudgingly handing him a bona fide stack of short stories books Nico thought were long-lost, not pilfered. Aside from the smile the scene put on his face, he’d recognized there might have been some insecurity creeping below the antics. He was tuned in to Pierre’s roundabout ways to express things that were bothering him, things he didn’t want to talk about and would very readily clam up about if put on the spot so Nico hadn’t, only suggested trying his hand at podcasts, that maybe the spoken aspect would curb that impatience he had when approaching written stories, be overall more engaging. 

A passing comment as it was, and as stubborn as Pierre could get sometimes, he didn’t think much would come out of it. That Pierre would sunbath to a podcast is another kind of fun entirely. He has to know all there is to it now. Especially, how good is he liking it.

It’s all just… sweet?

Either way, it speaks to the nerd in him. 

“Hey, Pierre.” he coos, into the earbud-free ear. “Pierrot?”.

“Nnnnnnnnnn,”

“No?”

Pierre stirs, grunt still going. Nico tries to swipe his dampish fringe back with the side of his cupped hand. “Shhh, ‘s too early. Come back in, like … hours, okay?”

“It’s midday, Pierrot.” 

An eye cracks open, just enough to fix him with a look. “Yeah, right.”

”Twenty past twelve.”

Amused, he moves his hand off Pierre’s hair and instead angles his wrist to re-check his watch, then let his boyfriend see for himself. Pierre squints his eyes but he does take out his other earbud and unpockets their little case. He searches for Nico’s hand to drop both on, a loud yawn briefly halting his movements. Nico doesn’t question Pierre’s logic as he puts the little things away and slides the case into his own pocket.

That telltale tug in his chest lingers.

“Time to slosh liters of sunscreen all over you again, before heading back. Go grab something to eat.”

“Eat,” Pierre blinks, slowly, lids looking heavier by the second. “Food, yes.”

“So you’re coming with, right?”

“Hmm right I am.” he slaps his thigh out of nowhere, then squeezes hard.

“Always, Nico.”

Pretty words, sadly, don’t move muscles, or else Nico wouldn’t have an arm falling limp across his lap mere seconds after. There’s no question in his mind that Pierre never quite left the sleep haze this whole exchange but he chooses to take pity on him. After all, it _is_ their first day here and Pierre hadn’t shut up about the beach leisurely life in the weeks leading up to this.

Pouring sunscreen onto his fingertips, he decides to start by doing his face. It’s the easiest, just a lone drop on his nose then one for either cheek. A slash across his forehead as he blows his hair back and a wiggly lines like rain on his chin. The final product is photo-worthy so, maybe, he wipes his hands on the towel and does it justice. 

“Stay still, bibou.” he mouth-whispers, because, of course, Pierre’s not supposed to listen. 

Tap.

“Oh, look at that.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“A little zoom? Or a lot of zoom, why not?”

Tap (ad infinitum).

“Pretty, pretty Pierrot.” 

Tap.

Impish smile never leaving, he pockets his phone and gets back to work. Pierre’s _ohhh’s_ and _ahhh’s-_ to-be fill his mind, how he’d dub Nico ‘a lost cause of whipped’ then, when Nico inevitably showed him each and every photo, proceed to do absolutely nothing to discourage this hobby of his. More often, he’d crack some silly joke about his supposedly bad angles and scroll on. Nico can’t find any of those, now, as he smears the lotion around until the white blends all the way into Pierre’s just-shaved smooth complexion.

More sunscreen is squeezed out, so he can work it into the underside of his jaw, all around his neck. It’s not as easy to scoop up Pierre the way he’d need to get to his back so he makes use of the arm still thrown across his lap and carefully hooks hand to elbow, to pull him over and grab him by the shoulder. He holds him there, then, so he’s lying on his side.

Still, some alertness on Pierre’s part must bloom, to have him get closer than advisable and rest his head on his lap, nuzzle into it like this was simply the set up to a nap and Nico was the none other than the willing pillow.

Small mercies, that— that so-labeled, quick-dry formula.

“I see what you’re doing, Pierrot” Nico warns, tone light. “Don’t think I don’t.”

Chest and back are easier to access now, not to get caught up in too, as he splays his hand and covers his chest with circular, shallow movements that by the time they reach his waist are all helplessly slowed, fingers mapping out ribcage, flanks and abs, pressing thumbs into the taut skin, tracing the jutted hipbones that give way to a dent of a v line. It’s really pleasant on the senses, errant aimless touch of a body as nice as Pierre’s, one that bends to hit a tennis ball not without force yet ever-graceful in all its wiry, peak athletic glory.

The more he drags this out-

Nico’s aware. Aware he’s going off track, in a detour that’s neither here nor now. Rounding up Pierre’s side with a quick pass of his hand on creamy skin he gets to his back and repeats the circular application approach. The closing touch, quite literally, to a job well done is idle fingertips ghost-tracing their way up a relaxed spine, a smooth journey that ends when he gets to Pierre’s nape, so familiar under his touch that it’s almost on reflex that his hand cups it, thumb stretched out and rubbing into that sweet spot under Pierre’s ear, the one with the little mole hiding safe behind.

He lets go, after a while, opting to grab Pierre’s hand in his instead.

Press a kiss to it.

Or two.

The reaction is immediate: brilliant eyes that are quick to find his, and stare, a lot more awake, like they’ve surely been for sometime now. Sneaky, but he’s not one to talk after struggling so bad to not get carried away. Nico holds his gaze, mesmerized by how the light has turned it mostly honey-like, left only pinprick pupils to claim that black, will-root-you-to-the-spot intensity. Nico feels something anxious in him let up, being looked like that, and it’s almost with a blush that he turns Pierre’s hand in his and pours the leftover warmish sunscreen into it.

“You can do the other side,” he gestures to him, the one he’s lying on. “and the legs now, okay?”

“Yes,” Pierre rasps out, actually checking his hand and cupping it better. “Thank you.”

Nico nods, “Having slightly darker skin doesn’t mean you can slap on a little sunscreen and call it a day.”

“Nico, I swear you’re color blind sometimes.”

“It’s a health matter, you being cocky changes nothing.”

“I know myself, Nico. My skin doesn’t go red or peel off no matter how long I sunbath. I promise you,” he breathes, visibly weighing his words “one 15 SPF bottle could last me a whole month, no problem. _You_ get worried so I entertain you with this 50+ SPF white people stuff but, it’s super unnecessary.”

“Keep on entertaining me Pierre, go on.” Nico nudges his side with his knee, calm but not budging. He raises his eyebrows and juts his chin in the direction of Pierre’s still-cupped hand.

“Let’s go eat… somewhere nice.”

Nico hums, considering, as he watches Pierre lick his lips. “That’s the plan, yes. _After_ -”

“I mean, let me take you somewhere nice to eat.”

“Sure, Pierre, okay.” He manages to edge in, expression easing into a smile and, halted.

Pierre surges up—need he say, in a _very_ annoying display of abdominal fitness— and sends an arm looping over his shoulders which in turn drags him down, mouth crashing none-too-elegantly with wet, just-so parted lips. It’s his favourite type of kisses, Nico knows, the stolen messy ones, so he tries his best to relax into the awkward position, hand sliding over the small of Pierre’s back to help hold him as he tilts his head for easier access, and, oh, maybe his cap falls off but who cares?

Not him, clearly, when there’s a tongue licking and poking at where he’s not putting up much resistance, just the cursory bare minimum to keep Pierre humble.

It’s a noble effort, for however many seconds it lasts.

The heat pierces him deep, coils in his belly so Nico finds himself unable not to yield under the sweet insistence, pent-up tension bleeding right out of him as he spills all these choked-back sounds of surprise out of his chest and into Pierre’s waiting mouth. His pliancy is rewarded with a streak of boldness on Pierre’s part, the kind that has him seek depth one breath then nibble at his lower lip the next, thorough in spite of that hurried pace he loves to indulge in, fully aware it renders Nico mindless with want. Bolts of electricity zipping through him, his hand curls where he holds Pierre as the man invades his senses, it seems, what with Nico’s sudden hyperfixation on his smell and the hair that tickles his nose and forefront; on the weight of Pierre’s leg lying limp atop his and the taste of bubblegum mixed with those fresh, citrusy beverages he’s had; on that drawn-out whine Pierre pours and he duly swallows, flushing even as he lets tongue slip-slide along Pierre’s into his mouth, be lightly sucked at and it all is, it’s—

It makes him want Pierre to be the one bodily holding him, to lessen the feeling he’d turn into static any second now, lungs burning something fierce by the time he weakly pulls back and keens, with the last he’d left, chesty and rough and pathetic when Pierre is so close, giving him his undivided attention, drinking in the all too flustered aftermath.

Not that he’s ever denied Pierre being a phenomenal kisser.

“Now that’s what I call a wake-up kiss,” Pierre murmurs, nose brushing against his as he shakes his head a little, all silly smiley which works just as fine for Nico’s pounding heart. With a wink, Pierre picks up the fallen cap, _his_ , and puts it on Nico’s head again. He slides back to his towel, stretching and—because for all the posturing he does he actually listens to Nico—rubbing the sunscreen into his legs at last. Nico’s gaze lingers.

“Don’t get too distracted.”

“Ah, too late for that.” He sighs, only half-jokingly, but he makes a point to get on his feet and start gathering their things. Perhaps, not being as straightforward about it as he could be, bending over things that get in his way instead of going through the trouble of moving them. Athlete’s perks and all that, no?

“Good thing is: two can play that game, Pierrot.” He singsongs.

Oh, would they _play_ alright. Nico has no doubts the teasing alone meant Pierre would make sure of it now, all sun-kissed and feeling heated all over. He’s nothing if not flirtatious and generous, easily tempted yet loving in the best ways.

It’s the farthest thing from a hassle in summer, going down with this fever.

Hundreds of miles away, later on, he wishes it could be like this too.

**Author's Note:**

> Please go give my girl Victoria some love if you can, her songs are dreamy and beautiful <3
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


End file.
